He saw her curiosity pique, but she asked nothing of who, as many a woman might. “″Nonsense. That is not love — liking a woman’s eyes and smile. That is physical attraction. I am talking of a meeting of the souls and minds of two individuals who are meant for each other — like Cinder Ella and her prince, or Rapunzel and the man brave enough to climb far from solid ground to reach her tower.”
As she stared at him, fully expecting him to agree with her romantic drivel, Simon suddenly had no doubt that hero-worship was an even more dangerous emotion than the avarice felt by the army of young women angling to marry him by fair method or foul.
She was so serene, so certain that he posed no danger to her reputation that he suddenly wanted to discompose her as badly as she had unsettled him. “Can you be so sure? What do you know of the power of physical attraction?”
Her smile faltered and she quickly turned her attention back to the apple in her hand. “I have had a few suitors since Mama and Papa’s death.”
Knowing the kind of men who would have offered for a young woman without parental guidance, Simon’s stomach clenched in anger. “And you found none of them acceptable?”
She shook her head. “That burst of physical attraction you spoke of seems to bring most men to behave in completely unacceptable ways.” She sighed. “But you yourself have risen above such physical cravings, Your Grace, so you must recognize that there is something finer, and more satisfying in a higher meeting of souls.”
For a moment, Simon considered revealing how much he had been enjoying the way her soaked muslin gown revealed her slender figure. He imagined her lips parting slightly in shock. But then she would cover herself, no doubt regaining that formidable composure of hers within minutes. No, he needed something more ... shocking ... to bring Miss Fenster to her senses. And he did not want to forgo the pleasure the sight of her curves gave him. It was like probing a sore tooth with his tongue: looking at her, knowing the danger — to them both — in seducing her.
His own clothes were as soaked through as hers, which gave him the idea for which he sought. He had already stripped his sodden jacket off and thrown it over a stool near the fire. Casually, as if he did not know she was watching him from the corner of her eye as she worked, Simon stood, unfastened his shirt, pulled it loose from his breeches and removed it. He hung it on the iron pothook for the fireplace, positioning the hook so that the shirt was far enough away not to burn, but close enough to dry quickly in the heat from the fire.
He seated himself on the stool, removed first one boot, then the other, placing them neatly beside a dusty pile of blankets. He stood up, reaching for the fastening of his breeches.
At last, she gasped. “What are you doing?”
He turned slowly to savor the sight of her, jaw agape, frozen in surprise with a bowl of fruit cradled in her arms, as if for protection. Wickedly, he spun the moment out just slightly longer than necessary before he answered, “I’m ensuring that I don’t take ill. Shouldn’t you do the same?”
At that, she looked down at her own gown, the skirts dragging the ground from the weight of the water, then back up at him. There was a puzzled frown on her face that deepened as he started to peel away his riding breeches. But she did not turn away from him as he had expected. Instead, she stared at him, up and down the length of him, with a hint of wonder.
Suddenly, with her gaze transfixed upon him, he felt as shy as an untried boy. He snapped, “I am not a ham, Miss Fenster. Kindly stop gawking as if you were at market.”
He was warned by the narrowing of her eyes. “If I were at market, and you were a ham, I should certainly not ogle you. You are no gentleman to insult me so.” She whirled away, but not so quickly that he couldn’t see her mouth twist in pain as her injured ankle gave way and she lost her balance.
Simon started forward to offer a steady hand as she struggled to maintain her balance against the hampering cling of her wet skirts. Before he could reach her, she lost the struggle with a last toss of her arms. The bowl of fruit she had held struck him in the chest, taking his breath away. She landed in a sprawl on the floor.
He held out his hand to her, unable to resist a gentle barb. “You can see now how dangerous wet clothing can be.”
She refused his hand as she rose. Without looking at him, she swept her disarranged hair from her cheek where it clung. She had the grace to blush and suddenly he was not so much angry as sad. A woman with such courage and loyalty, not to mention that unique flair for skirting disaster, would have made an unforgettable duchess — under his tutelage to smooth out the unfortunate tendency to impulsiveness, of course.
But that was not to be. Anything he had to teach her must be taught tonight. He felt the old emotional wound open as he stared at her hair, half fallen out and curling with the damp. And she certainly deserved a lesson for this foolishness. If he were any other man, he had no doubt that she would have her skirts around her ears, by now. The thought made him groan aloud as he captured a handful of damp curls, the same color as cinnamon, and let them rest in his open palm. “You should see to your own health, Miss Fenster. You are as wet as I.”
Her eyes were huge, but still trusting. He wanted, more than anything at that moment, to make love to her, to make sure that she would never put herself in this position again. He stepped closer. “It would be a misfortune should you take ill ... before I have received my compensation for the trouble you have put me through.”
She breathed shallowly, as she tried to avoid his bare flesh. “I agree that you deserve some recompense, Your Grace. Perhaps I might shine your boots?”
He was tempted to laugh, which amazed him. He had not laughed in a long time and Miss Fenster had coaxed the urge more than once in under an hour. “I would prefer payment of another kind. Do I dare hope that the infamous Miss Fenster will agree? I well remember the black eye Grimthorpe sported the morning of the duel.”
Her trembling lips tightened and her voice was a soft whisper. “Mother never told me that I’d blackened his eye. I’m surprised she didn’t add that to my long list of sins.” Her chin came up a fraction more, and suddenly the blade of the paring knife rested against the flat of his stomach. “As you were not harmed then by my actions, Your Grace, I cannot believe you would allow me to be harmed now by yours.”
Though he was relieved that she had the sense to realize she was in danger, Simon reacted as swiftly as if she had been a London cutthroat, disarming her of the knife before she blinked.
Her eyes wide, she stared at the knife he now held, as she cradled her wrist gently in her other hand. He had not the slightest doubt that she would not have harmed him. Still, it was better that she know she was outmatched. She might take the lesson to heart, at last.
A smile twitched on her lips as she breathed out softly. “You are magnificent. How could you disarm me so swiftly?”
Magnificent? He was magnificent? Did the dashed woman not understand that he was seducing her? Simon used the back of his hand to stroke gently and slowly from her chin to her ear. She stood still for his caress, making no protest, not even the softest of sighs. Her eyes captured his. He did not know how to read them, did not know how to look away. Her skin was firm and silky under his fingertips. Simon closed his eyes briefly. When would she protest? When would she finally believe he had gone too far?
Goading her further, Simon drew his forefinger across her lips. They parted slightly, her breath came warm on his finger. And all the while, her gaze was upon his, trusting, worshiping and, dear God, desiring. Simon fought his urge to touch her lips with his own, or to allow his hands to explore the curves displayed by the clinging of her damp clothing.
He reminded himself sternly that he wanted a reaction from her, not from himself. But Miss Fenster swayed toward him slightly, apparently unable to oblige him with the affronted response he was seeking. And all he could think of was that she could have been his wife. He could have had her in his bed every night.
Pain supplanted desire
at the thought; he could not bear to seduce her and discover fully what it was that he had lost.
With a sigh, he grasped her shoulders and turned her away from him so that he could unfasten her dress. Her shoulders stiffened in his grip.
“What are you doing?” Her voice was husky — with fear, he hoped.
“Helping you out of your wet things. You can drape yourself in a blanket.” He wondered if his impertinence would finally spur her into response. But she stood silently as he peeled the clothing away from her back.
Simon exhaled sharply. “What is this?” Through her damp, practically transparent chemise he could see the faint, but unmistakable white scars that came from severe lashing. One of his fingers came up to trace a scar that snaked wickedly down to the small of her back and beyond.
She shivered and pulled away from him. “My father did not approve of my outspoken nature.” Her shoulders stiffened, and he heard the ring of defiance in her words. “I will never let another man have such complete power over me that he could beat me for my belief in my own abilities.”
Anger swept through him and made his words intemperate. “You say you will not give a man power over you, and yet you stand here, uncorseted, in a dress so damp it hides not one curve — except for at the bosom, where it threatens very enticingly to fall away and display your breasts.”
She stared down at her loosened bodice and clutched it tight. But she did not pull away from him.
He sighed. “You have allowed me to all but undress you, Miss Fenster. I daresay I could take you here and now if I wished.”
She opened her mouth as if to protest, and then closed it. For a moment, uncertainty crossed her features.
She blinked rapidly, and he realized that she was about to admit her weakness. He turned away from her, to prevent the confession, for it was best left unsaid. He crossed the room and tossed a blanket to her across the few feet between them.
She blushed crimson. “I was not thinking ...”
“That, my dear Miss Fenster,” he interrupted her hastily, “seems to be a trait you and your brother share.”
He had hit a nerve with that, he saw, when she drew herself up haughtily and replied, “Valentine’s integrity is as great as yours, Your Grace.” She crossed the few feet of distance between them to stand close enough to burn him with the heat of anger in her eyes.
He realized that she still had no idea what she risked being here alone with him. Her head was full of dreams and ideals of love and honor. It struck him that she was still as naive about men and women as she had been five years ago. So far, she had been fortunate to have been pursued by men for whom she had felt no physical passion.
He shuddered, thinking of how willing she had been for his caresses. All because he was a hero of some trumped-up tales of bravery she had heard secondhand. He closed his eyes. In London there would be dozens more “heroes” who could ignite that same fire, no matter how much his ego cried out that she felt such things only for him. And, despite her father’s cruel discipline, she had no defenses in place to prevent her own ruination.
His urge was to call upon Valentine and insist that a husband be found for Miranda at once. But he had no right to do such a thing. And he could not, without Valentine learning the whole story. Still, he felt a strong desire to ... to show her just what danger she courted.
Even as he took her in his arms and bent his head to kiss her, he told himself he intended to give her no more than a taste of what could happen when a woman was at the mercy of a rake. But when she opened her mouth under his in a small gasp of surprise and then curled her hands around his neck, he forgot all but the taste of her.
Chapter 3
A scrabbling noise from the loft above cut into Simon’s consciousness.
Reluctantly, he pulled away from Miranda, holding a finger to his lips that turned her bemusement into a narrow-eyed silence. He was fleetingly glad to see that her cheeks were flushed. He hoped it was a sign that he had taught her to be wary.
With the stealth and silence that had kept him alive more than once, he grasped the frayed rope that hung from a ceiling beam and handed himself slowly and silently up into the tiny loft area. Except for a little moldering hay put by in one corner, the rest of the loft was swept bare of anything but a layer of mouse and owl droppings.
Simon grabbed up the pitchfork, brandishing it as if it were a bayonet. “Come out of there now,” he said in the voice that had made his bravest men jump.
There was a twitch in the hay, but nothing more.
Simon directed his attention to the area of the twitch and swore softly at the sight of a bare foot protruding from the hay. It was covered with grime — and small. “Come out, boy.”
There was no movement from the hay. Behind him, Miranda gasped. “It is but a child you’re frightening?”
He turned his head, surprised to see that she had climbed up after him. There were not many women of his acquaintance he’d credit with the ability or inclination to climb a rope. “I can see you’ve forgotten London life, Miss Fenster. Can’t turn your back on the little beggars.”
To his surprise, though nothing he had previously done had eradicated one glimmer of the hero-worship in her eyes, his comment seemed to have brought him down a notch.
“Little beggars!” With a scornful look at him, she marched up to the pile of hay, which was trembling now, and knelt beside it. “I’m sorry if we frightened you.” When there was no further movement from within the pile of hay, she coaxed, “You must be hungry. Would you like food? I have apples and cheese and fresh bread. Why don’t you come out?”
Her voice was soft and persuasive, but the child remained hidden in the hay.
Simon’s gaze, trained as it was on Miranda’s slender back, still bared by her gaping dress, was caught by the series of shivers that shook her. With an impatient oath, he dropped the pitchfork and reached out for the child’s exposed foot. One swift pull, accompanied by a soft squeal, revealed a young girl, no more than three or four, with long blonde braids and big brown eyes.
Even Simon could not be wary of the girl once he saw how tiny and frightened she was. As he held the child in his arms and jumped from the loft to the floor below, he felt a flash of gratitude that she had made her presence known when she did. He could think of no more effective means to prevent him from seducing Miss Fenster tonight. Certainly his own willpower had failed.
He left Miranda to tend to the frightened child while he gathered wood. When he returned, chilled, but with what he hoped was enough wood to last through the night, he was not surprised to find Miranda draped in a makeshift toga, with the child beside her, cleaned up and bundled into a blanket of her own. The child held a half-eaten slice of bread in one hand and was well into the story of how she had come to be at the cottage.
“He said I was pretty as my Mam, and he gave me a sweet before he went in to her.” Her eyes rested on Miranda with complete trust, as a child might look at her mother. Simon’s gut clenched with shock at the unwelcome realization that he and Miranda might have had a child this age by now. He dropped the wood into the basket with a thunk.
“Why’d that handsome gennulmun tell me he dropped a gold piece at the crossroads?”
“I don’t know Betsy, but I can’t believe he knew you’d go looking for it and get lost.” Miranda met Simon’s gaze.
He wondered, seeing her doubtful expression, how much of what was an obvious attempt to distract a child while the “gennulmun” tumbled the mother, was apparent to Miranda. The girl’s clothes, though carefully patched; were little more than rags. She probably came from one of the poorer of the village folk, grateful for money any way they could earn it.
“Do you come from Watson or Nevilshire, girl?” he asked.
She smiled proudly, “Nevilshire, Your Grace.” With a gleeful glance she checked with Miranda, as if to ensure that her salutation had been correct. She was rewarded with a smiling nod from Miranda.
Simon sighed inwardly. Do
ubtless Miranda had not thought of a child’s wagging tongue before she’d informed the girl of his title. “I’ll take you back to your Mam tomorrow. Tonight you’ll bed down with us.”
Her eyes sparkled as if he’d promised her a pony.
“Yes, sir. Thankee sir.” And then her eyes darkened. “My mam will be sore mad at me. She told me not to never go too far away.”
Miranda said gravely, although Simon suspected that a smile lurked under her sober demeanor, “I’m sure if you convince her that you’ve learned your lesson, she’ll forgive you.”
Betsy looked doubtful.
Miranda smiled at her. “Why, I remember when I was your age, my nanny told me about another young lady who also wasn’t the best at heeding her mother’s warnings. She did learn her lesson one day, or so my nanny said.”
Betsy’s eyes were sparkling once more. “What was she called?”
Miranda’s brow knitted. “I don’t think Nanny Hilda ever told me the girl’s name, now that you ask. But she did tell me about the wonderful warm cape that her mother made her, of a most beautiful red, the color of a cardinal. So why don’t we call her Little Redcape, as my nanny did?”
Betsy nodded her approval, and despite a mouthful of bread, asked, “Did she get lost too, like me?”
Miranda shook her head, more patient with the child’s curiosity than he would have been. He settled in to tend the fire, and to listen to the tale, sure that there would be some happy twist that could only come from the inimitable fairytale-loving Miss Fenster. “No, not exactly. You see, her grandmother was ill, and Little Redcape’s mother asked her to take a basket of herbs and some soup and fresh bread to her.”
“And she didn’t?”
Miranda laughed and leaned forward to whisper as unselfconsciously as if she’d been in the nursery of her own home telling a tale to her sisters. “She did indeed — and met a wolf on the way.”
“A wolf!” Betsy’s round face was a study in delight.
[Once Upon a Wedding 01.0] The Fairy Tale Bride Page 4
